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Sprinkle Me
I am a yellow dandelion flower sprinkled by a gentle rain falling from gray stratus clouds, a blanket draped upon the land. The shower passes over, washing and watering me. I am a cotton dress shirt spotted by water droplets falling from the sprinkler top on an old Blue Nun bottle. The iron passes over,…
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Exclamation!
We bend words thin and pale at their points of flexion, our forearms shaking, but no filigree makes talk of chrysalides and butterflies grain and wheat emerge triumphant from oral caverns as the metaphor with shoulders broad enough to carry us across the chasm from death to life. We turn instead to exclamation– Christ is…
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One Last Bubble
Hope sounds like meadow birds singing in the darkness before the rising of the sun, riffs entwined and floating like the bubbles Grandma made when she dipped her metal wand and spun in a circle, her arms outstretched, a trail of iridescent spheres arcing behind her hand, riding the spring breeze in the garden as…
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Bathed
Like crystal milk the frost embraces a Busch can tossed with a hand’s wave to the beachgravel road pocked by double-crescent prints of deer crossing in files of four that bound up the grassy rise in grey light to stand in vigilant profile against a hazy sky flushing blood red ahead of dawn’s rays running…
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Bread
Bread of life, we break your body, tearing you to pieces, allotting our own portions. Bread of life, we crack your crust, scattering you in crumbs, serving our own desires. Our hands raise you up, clench and pull. Our eyes watch you split and rip in our grasp. One loaf, offered for many, one loaf,…
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The Telescope
The telescope dozes on its tripod, head tilted back, one eye closed, steady on three feet, waiting patiently for gentle hands to lift and carry it reverently into the darkness of a starry night, open its solitary eye, turn its gaze to the skies and peer deeply into heaven’s past. David M. Frye April 8,…
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The Switch
Hands hold bat unnaturally, left snugged against knob, right gripping handle above. Stance still square to plate, but left shoulder points to mound and pitcher. Head turns left, eyes watch waiting for ball’s release. Mind wanders in waiting, wondering why the switch. Life is left-handed, sinister, a litany of accommodations. Scissors digging into hand pencil…
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Enduring the Cross
“… look[] to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:2, NRSV)
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Log Entry
Today’s poetic attempts lie on the page. Unfinished. Entangled in squiggles, dead ends, cross-outs. But that’s the nature of experimentation. Not every filament lit up Edison’s bulb. Most flashed and crumbled into ashes. So I’ve flipped the switch today. A quick feeble light and embered darkness. Time to strike a match and light a candle.…
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With Passion
A party gathers in the streets flash-mobbing by word-of-mouth raising voices as one with joy. Hosanna in rhythm he’s coming hosanna hosanna I see him ecstatic hosanna Amen shed robes wave palms amen amen he’s here Yes look see yes Oh! Now is the time! This is the day! We are the ones! He is…